Empty
by Jayke Manners
Summary: Her hand dropped in front of her eye as she surveyed the glass, “Huh,” Sara noted, “empty.” Her eyes turned upward and speared into his own. “How appropriate.” GS Angst


"So," Sara asked, "Have you come to ask me if I'm drunk?"

Grissom remembered the last time Sara had flippantly thrown the question in his face. She'd waved the bottle in the air, mild sarcasm lacing the walls of her apartment.

"_We both know that isn't your problem."_ At the time, it seemed true enough. Even her PEAP counsellor had agreed, no recommendations for AA or follow up drug counselling had been requested. But Sara had always been good at making others believe in white lies. Now Grissom knew better. The memory of that evening in Sara's apartment still cut him every time he looked at her. He'd held her hand, sat with her a while, nodded when she'd smiled with embarrassment and stated her need for a shower, and his need to return to the office – before he was suspended as well. He'd left, of course. Any excuse…

But now, as he looked down at her, he was armed with a prior knowledge that they'd all been too quick to accept an easy answer. She sat – well, sprawled - against the wall of Brass' living room, beer dangling from one hand, her gun from the other, a lopsided smile plastered on her face. Brass had called him only a half hour ago, having picked her up walking home from the pub around the corner from the lab. The fact that Sara lived a half hour away by car, added to the fact that she wasn't doing such a great job of the few steps he'd seen her take, encouraged him to pull over. She'd been jovially receptive to a ride home, something Brass hadn't expected. Practically dancing into his kitchen and popping a beer was also a course of action he'd been too slow to halt. He tried to take the beer off her, that's when things had become, well, interesting.

She pulled her gun on him. Brass hadn't even noticed she still had it with her. By rights, her weapon should have been lying safely in her locker. A closer inspection revealed it not to be her CSI pistol, in itself this was a revelation. What would cause Sara to purchase a second weapon? Brass took a swift step back, hands raised, his shock well hidden beneath a cool exterior. He knew Sara wasn't about to shoot him, hell she never even bothered flicking the safety, and she was _damn_ drunk. People did remarkably stupid things when they were this far gone. And there was something about cops and gun pulling – it was like a right of passage. Now if it had been a _civilian _pulling the gun… Brass could remember the last time he was this bad – when his first wife had left him. He recalled pulling a gun on his best friend, until it was swiftly taken from him and he'd received a hard punch in the stomach. He deserved it. But Brass wasn't about to hit Sara, she'd had enough of that already.

After ten minutes of yelling and ranting, declaring herself, "the psycho 'loose cannon' of night shift" and finally collapsing onto his floor in a heap, Brass decided this one was out of his league. He called Grissom, sat down in front of Sara and the pair began a long discussion on the benefits of giving up her bottle of beer, or the gun – either would be an improvement. Brass lost the argument on both counts. He was relieved when he heard the bell.

"Who's that?" Sara asked, brow furrowing in annoyance.

"I called Grissom." It was a confession, and Brass double checked to be sure the safety was still on as he stood up to get the door.

Sara's head merely lolled back and her disappointment increased. "Aw, shit."

Brass opened the door, "Hey buddy. She's all yours. I'll be in the back if you need me."

Grissom nodded, casting a glance over Brass' shoulder and noting with sadness the familiar heap on the floor. As Brass disappeared he cast a final warning over his shoulder, "Oh, and careful Grissom. She's armed." Grissom did not hear the detective mutter that maybe she'd shoot some sense into him.

Sara barely moved, her mouth pulling into a satirical grin as she waved her beer in the air, "So…" she asked. "Have you come to ask me if I'm drunk?" The self depreciating chortle that followed was slightly lost into the sob that also choked out her throat. "Cause if you are, well then I confess. I may be a tad intoxificated." She took a long haul from the bottle and emptied it of its contents. Her hand dropped in front of her eye as she surveyed the glass, "Huh," she noted, "empty." Her eyes turned upward and speared into his own. "How appropriate."

"Sara…" Grissom started.

"Don't." Sara pointed lifelessly with her pistol, not aiming it – Grissom doubted she even remembered she held it in her hand. "Just… don't Grissom. I really haven't got the energy, ok?"

He closed his mouth, lips pursing as his eye twitched in _concern_. "Ok," he answered. He sat down in front of her, an elbow resting on his knee. And waited. They sat that way for almost an hour, as tears fell silently from Sara's upturned face, as he reached out and pulled first the bottle, then the gun from her limp hands. Sara's wrist lay languidly on the floor as she curled her legs beneath her and pressed her face into the wall. God, she wanted to just disappear. Just melt into the wall and become as flat and white as the nothingness she felt all around her. She felt Grissom's hand on her own, not lifting it from the floor, not holding on, just the presence of his fingers curled beneath, his thumb stroking the underside of her wrist. She hated him for that. She hated the way his smallest movement could send her spiralling, the slightest touch make her heart freeze painfully in her chest. But most of all she hated that in spite of it all - she couldn't pull her hand away.

"Come on," he said, finally. "Let me take you home."

Sara sighed, her breath ragged. She turned to look at Grissom and the sorrow she saw in his eyes tore into her. She wanted to fold into his arms, collapse against him and feel the strength she knew he possessed flow into her – and she would let her own flood into him. For she had strength left in her. It was what kept her coming back into the lab. It was what sat her up every evening and pushed the demons far into the back of her mind. Every now and then the demons won, and Grissom would come for her. Just like tonight. He would let her draw on his strength for as long as the claws held at her. But Sara knew not to fall for this Grissom, because the next day, he wouldn't exist. Just as tomorrow, this Sara wouldn't exist.

She nodded, eyes falling closed as he stood and eased her up. Grissom pulled of his coat and wrapped it around her, kissing her forehead. He nodded his chin to Brass, who stood, watching solemnly from the doorway. Somehow he knew - tomorrow, none of them would acknowledge this had ever happened.


End file.
